So when I see the scarlet t-shirtOut of the corner of my eyeBeside me on the bus this morning,When crimson curves rise and fall with every breath:Is there nothing inside the shirt? No girl, no rustle as she turns the pages of her newspaper, No hair tied up in a knot on top of her head, No rattle of doors, no thrum of engine. No trees dashing by outside the window, No river flowing behind the trees, and across the river no city, No rush-hour scampering of people to jobs, No swarm of selling and buying, No crust of the earth, No sun, no galaxy in which it swims ...None of that — only a red patch now?